


No Trace

by myblueworld



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 17:03:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6087616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myblueworld/pseuds/myblueworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate Universe. David Villa is a professional assassin. Diego Costa is his client. David Silva is his target.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Trace

**Author's Note:**

> Basically I've been thinking about this one since David Villa posted this picture on his Instagram (https://www.instagram.com/p/BB2eZ51PBRc/)

_**[*]** _

He never leaves any trace. That’s what makes David Villa is good in his job. _So_ good. So good that people will recommend his name to other people who need his kind of service, even though they never met him in person. People who once used his service only know his voice, talking with them through the phone. He is _that_ good, people always willing to pay for the price that he asked. They even never have a problem to pay half of his price upfront, because they know that what they ask for will be fulfilled as what they wish for.

And he is _so_ good, that before one tries to contact him about a job, he will be the one contacting the person, his client-to-be. Don’t ask how. Nobody ever asks how he does it. Knowing his reputation is enough to make them ask no question to him.

“You’ve got the money?”

David lazily glances at the TV screen, checking the score of the game that he is kind of watching while working with the stuff he has on his computer screen.

“Yeah,” he answers.

“Good.”

“Give me two weeks.”

“Starting today.”

Davis stares at the picture on his computer once again.

“What problem do you have with this kid?”

David can hear the other person snorts at his question.

“That’s none of your business.”

David knows that. He even surprised with the fact that he asked a question. He usually never asks any question about his client or his target. All this time, David only pays attention on two things about his job: getting his job done, and getting paid for it.

When he found out that Costa needs him for a job, he initially not really surprised. Diego Costa is nasty, and that is the most polite adjective to describe the man. But he also smart enough that up until now, he has not been behind the bar. Yet. Then again, of course, it’s not his business. His business is getting his job done, and getting paid for it.

But when Costa told him who his target is, and he’s done his part of researching about his target, something just…doesn’t match.

This guy…he looks so young. And it’s a bit difficult for Villa to believe that he is one of the richest people in the continent. He looks too young. He looks too awkward.

But all the information about him are saying the same thing, he is the owner of some multinational companies. Well, inheriting the companies from his father might be one of the factors that make this Silva kid is a multimillionaire. But surely, it takes more than just being born with a silver spoon in his mouth to keep those companies running.

The sound of Costa clearing his throat pulls him back to reality.

“So, two weeks?” Costa asks. There is that insisting tone in his raspy voice.

“Two weeks.” David nods and ends the call.

The commentator is saying something about the goal that apparently just happens. But that voice coming from the TV becomes just a white noise that David doesn’t hear, as he stares at the picture on his computer.

The guy in the picture is smiling awkwardly, as if he’s not sure how to smile properly.

And for the first time ever, a strange thought crosses David’s mind.

_This kid is too young to die._

* * *

 

_**[*]** _

One of the ultimate rule in this job: never, ever, get emotionally attached to your target.

David Villa has always sticks with this rule religiously. That what makes him good in doing his job.

But this is just the second day of him keeping up with the target, and already there is this small voice at the back of his head telling him that maybe, maybe this time, he’s about to fuck up.

Maybe.

Because he spends a second to long looking at his target (but it’s not like anyone notice that he is looking at that Silva kid, really). He’s digging up too much information about his target. But to his defense, in this kind of job, there should be nothing like too much information.

But of course, he is David Villa. Someone who is that good in doing his job. So he pushes that stupid thought away.

David even starts to make up a stupid reason on why this target is unlike his previous ones; David and this target share the same name.

Come to think of it, it’s funny in one way. It’s not like David is an uncommon name. But never before David has to deal with a target that has the same name as his.

It’s such a lame, stupid, irrelevant reasoning of why he thinks that this one target is different from the others. But David desperately needs something, anything, to excuse himself of having that strange tingling feeling whenever he sees Silva. Even just a picture of him.

And due to the nature of this job, where David needs to closely keeps an eye for his target, of course he sees Silva a lot.

On the fourth day, his frustration reached a stage where David feels he desperately needs a cigarette. He’s waiting for the traffic light to give a sign for pedestrians to cross the street, when light rain starts falling down. David groans. Then a swift movement from his side startles him. He turns his face and freezes. Silva is standing next to him, a big umbrella in his hand. The slightly smaller guy is holding the opened umbrella to shelter both of them from the rain.

David suddenly forgets how to breathe as he stares at Silva, who has smile on his face.

“I know you wear a hoodie. But an umbrella provides better shelter, I guess?” Silva says. His smile is a shy one but his eyes are warm and smiling along with his lips.

David blinks at Silva’s words. His brain is freezing, but at the same time, frantically trying to find something to say.

“Thank you.”

That’s all that he can think of and manage to say.

But he is saved by the need to say other things when the traffic light has given the signal to cross.

Silva gestures a little with his chin. 

David nods, and walks right next to Silva. David keeps his eyes on his feet as they cross the street, but he can feel how their shoulders are brushing each other. And it’s enough to send a shiver down his spine.

Once they reach the pavement on the other side, he turns his face to look at Silva.

“Thank you,” he says, once again. He tries to smile but somehow feels like he’s failing terribly. He’s rewarded with another smile from Silva, though. A small smile that makes David’s stomach does a backflip.

Silva nods politely. “You’re welcome. Have a nice day,” he says. And that’s it. Silva folds his umbrella as he turns and walks away. Villa stays where he is, watching Silva’s back before it completely disappears.

He still thinks about that shy smile on a face splattered with freckles when he walks to a store and gets himself a pack of cigarette.

He still thinks about that shy smile when he lies down on his bed that night.

And just before he drifts away to sleep, that voice in the back of his head becomes louder, clearer.

He is fucked up now. Totally screwed up.

* * *

_**[*]** _

He always gets his job done. Perfectly done. Without any traces. That’s what makes him gain the reputation that he has now. But right now, David Villa is sitting inside a small coffee shop, staring at the black liquid in the cup in front of him, waiting for his phone to go off.

It's exactly 9.12 when the screen blinks, a number that he has been waiting showing up on the screen as the caller.

“Hello.”

“It’s been two weeks,” the irritation in Costa’s voice is clear enough. “You said you’ll get it done in two weeks.”

David nods and pinches the bridge of his nose. There is a voice, maybe the logical, rational side of David, shouting at him inside, that he clearly has lost his mind.

“I’ll give you your money back.”

David can hear Costa inhales sharply, followed with a silence for a moment.

“What did you just say?”

Costa sounds more like he is angry than surprised. David sighs. He has been thinking about this and keep on telling himself that no, he shouldn’t do this. But by the time he woke up this morning, he knew already what he would tell Costa, even though it will extremely hurt his reputation.

“I said, I will give you your money back.”

Silence again. At this point, David actually expects Costa to shout at him, flooding him with curses and all kind of profanities.

But Costa laughs. A terrible, manic kind of laughter.

“Oh, I can’t believe that the famous David Villa, the one who people say is just so good for this kind of job, just withdraws himself from a job…”

David is thinking of how he himself can’t believe what he has just done. But what Costa says next makes him forget to breathe.

“Good thing I have a backup plan. Good thing that I’ve prepared someone else to do it.”

This time, it’s David who gasps to hear it. Without saying anything else, he ends the call abruptly. Standing up from where he has been sitting, he hastily makes his way to the door and walks out of the café.

He puts on the hoodie of his black jacket over his head, and his trained eyes scan the streets around him. A quick glance at his watch lets him know that Silva will be coming out from his office. And as usual, Silva will cross the street to the coffee shop where David was a minute ago, to get his daily dose of latte macchiato.

There he is.  David can see Silva walks out of the door, smiling at the door man as he makes his way out. David’s heart beat suddenly races with panic. His eyes catch the sight of a black car with dark tinted windows speeds up towards Silva’s direction. And the panic that he has now mixed up with terrors. David can still see how Silva brushes away his hair from his eyes when he starts making his way to cross the street. Running towards Silva, David is no longer thinking.

Maybe some people are screaming. Maybe some people are staring at him with confusion and shock. Maybe. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care.

What he sees is only how Silva’s eyes widened with surprise as David jumps at him, right at the moment where that black car is at the distance that David knows well from his experience, is the deadliest one for a medium range shoot.

And then David feels something sharp and hot slits the skin on his neck.

Just before he closes his eyes, he can feel the soft skin of Silva’s palm touching his cheek.

And after that, nothing matters anymore. He can do nothing else anymore

David Villa never leaves any trace when he does his job.

But this time, his blood is the only trace left behind. But to make it fair, he was not doing his job anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> I am sorry. Please don't hate me.


End file.
